Page 11 of Big Balls
Yes.
It’s a job interview that makes it abundantly clear to everyone involved that I’m deeply unqualified for the position, and yet it just won’t end.
The interviewers kept staring at me as if some relevant job experience was going to magically appear on my resume. Spoiler: it didn’t.
It’s my lifelong dream to work at a school like Worthington, which helps kids with special needs, just like my brother. Their faculty specializes in helping kids diagnosed with autism spectrum disorders, everything from sensory processing disorder to Asperger’s. I would be making a real difference in a way that is so important to me.
If we’re talking about life experience, then I have plenty to offer, but I’m not going to cash in on my brother’s personal issues to get work. I’ve done a practicum at the state agency specializing in autism interventions, but that’s the only employment experience I can realistically offer.
My entire family basically kept Ren’s issues quiet the whole time he was growing up. We didn’t let people into our little family circle, and at the time we thought that was the best way to protect him.
But when he got older, it wasn’t nearly as big of a deal anymore. He was smart and talented, and even funny sometimes. He was the king of dad jokes, for sure.
When he had his first child, I remember him telling my dad that if his own kid grew up like him, he wouldn’t keep it a secret.
That’s how we found out that he felt like he was our family’s dirty, shameful secret. Ren just dropped it into the middle of cooing at his daughter, a little truth bomb that blew up everything.
My father actually cried. I know he wanted to protect his son, but it wasn’t because he was ashamed of him. It was because people can be terrible to anybody who’s a little different.
They’ve made up now, so everything is going to be okay. But at the end of the day, there is a zero percent chance of me handing out snippets from my complicated family history to some fancy board of directors types just to weasel my way into a job that they think I’m not qualified to have.
So instead, I’m now sitting on one of Big Balls Alexander’s fancy chairs, desperately wishing I was meeting with Katy instead of her handsome, scary-eyed father.
He’s giving me the most vicious sneer I’ve ever seen, almost as if I’d just pooped on his shoe instead of coming to an interview to take care of his little girl. And even though I know in my heart that it’s unreasonable to be hurt about it, my feelings are definitely a little tender that he doesn’t seem to remember me at all.
I crawled on a bathroom floor for him. Well, for his daughter. But only because he asked me to do it.
“So,” I say, rubbing my hands on the fabric of my pencil skirt. “Where is Katy?”
His eyebrows shoot up and his mouth pops open for just a split-second—just long enough for me to catch a glimpse of his straight white teeth and the slight pink of his tongue.
Not that I’m staring. Definitely no reason to stare at this man’s mouth, right?
He shakes off his surprise and his mouth snaps closed. “Katy,” he yells, “Come on down here, Pinky Pie.”
I hear a thunder of little girl footsteps on the stairs and spin around as she squeals and flings herself at me in another vicious, waist-high hug. “Zoe! Daddy, it’s Zoe. Your girlfriend.”
My wide eyes shoot over to Big Balls in a panic, but he’s beaming down at his little girl with pure benevolence and affection all over his face. Even his posture is different now that she’s here. He’s softer, somehow, and less stiff all over.
“You remember me,” I murmur into the tangle of her hair. She smells like shampoo and little kid sweat. And possibly a tiny hint of candy.
“Of course I do. You’re Zoe. Let’s go play.” She unwraps her arms from me and grabs my hand, pulling me toward the stairs.
I look back over my shoulder, but Big Balls is still giving off benevolent Buddha energy, so I turn my attention back to his cute little kiddo and follow her upstairs.
Her room looks like a Barbie convention is taking place inside right now, except a little Katy-sized tornado has come through and scattered tiny clothes everywhere.
“Whoa,” I say, pausing at the threshold. “Let’s work together to get all this sorted out, and then we can play—as long as your daddy says it’s okay.”
Her little lip pokes out. “Aw, do we have to? I hate cleaning up.” She slumps down like she’s made out of quickly melting ice cream.
But no matter how cute all that is, we’re not doing it. “It won’t take long if there’s two of us working. And then we’ll have more room to play. It’ll be so much nicer.”
She pulls out a couple of shoe boxes, which are apparently the wardrobes for the Barbie clothes, and we work together to get all the scattered items gathered up neatly.
“See how easy that was? You did a great job, Super-Secret Agent Katy.” I hold up my hand for a high five, then reach behind me to straighten my too-tight skirt, which has slid precariously up my thighs during our tidying.
“I did do great. Right, Daddy?”
